The Adventure of the White Rabbit
by ArchFaith
Summary: Alice Holmes is the disturbed cousin of a young detective named Sherlock, sent to live with him for an extended period of time for "recuperation". SherlockAlice in Wonderland x-over. Ch. 3: Insanity, prostitution, and soon no home...how will they survive?
1. An Ettiquette for the Disillusioned

Disclaimer: All Sherlock Holmes elements belong to the estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. All Alice in Wonderland elements belong to the estate of Lewis Carrol.

**Update: 3/1/05 **Just breezing through to correct some grammar mistakes. I'm sorry this fic will probably remain unfinished...I just can't bring myself to write the church scene that should go in the fourth chapter! I dunno why...but know that I am still very fond of this fic, nonetheless.

The Mystery of the White Rabbit  
A crossover between Sherlock Holmes and Alice in Wonderland  
by ArchFaith

It appeared to be a child, no doubt of that. It was perched in a luxurious seat, the sole occupant of a carriage which had made the long journey from Christchurch to London. In the purple velvet lining of the opulent nest, she looked like a small, frail doll, with beautiful blonde ringlets crowning her glorious head, with a dainty blue ribbon to match. Her green eyes, enchanted with all the delights of a forest-born pixie, stared regally ahead. Her clothes were of no less note; a red cloak, white fur hat and muff indicated her position in life, that of a wealthy child. Underneath she donned a blue satin frock, with bell sleeves and a lacy collar. Over this she had on a white cotton play apron, even though she was not playing at anything; her expression silently conveyed this. Underneath her dress peaked an exquisite slip and undershorts which tied at her knees. Black patent shoes and white stockings completed the far-off look the girl wore.

The carriage made its way through the crowded city streets, past tenements and beggars, prostitutes and politicians. The bustling marketplaces, the sophisticated restaurants, the philosophical salons...all wonderful. It was that time of day when everything appears to turn dark blue, and the girl was fascinated. She had never been to London before, and the even the white foggy sky held a particular feeling of excitement for her.

"Still," she whispered to herself, "it would be so much nicer if I were coming to London for a more pleasant holiday." She sighed, and resigned herself to staring out the window, at the freedom of those around her.

She knew what the house looked like, even if she had never seen it. The carriage turned a corner and she found herself staring at it. It was a tall, narrow townhouse, crowded on both sides by similar, low-class looking homes. It was constructed of brown brick, and the door number read, "221B". "B"? How crude.

She prayed the carriage would not stop in front of it, but it did; she found herself mechanically descending the iron stairs, looking back as the coachman unloaded her luggage. Resignedly she stared up at the house and sighed. "Goodness," she muttered as she swung the knocker.

A few minutes the door finally opened. She found herself staring up at a tall young man, about twenty years of age. He was dressed quite commonly; cheap brown pants, a crisp white shirt, and a black vest. Quite common. His hair was long and waved past his ears, and his green eyes, the same shade as hers, looked down upon her. "Ah, hello Alice," he greeted, extending his hand.

"Sherlock," Alice answered, grasping his hand. "Ah, but there's another name too...Shelley?" Her wiry cousin smiled with a tired grin.

"You've called me that ever since you were a baby, Alice," he said, looking at the unusually large amount of luggage that now stood in front of the stoop. "And all that is yours, I see...well, go inside, I'll bring it in."

Mr. Sherlock Holmes-darling Shelley. The black sheep of the family. Her cousin.

Everyone had expected so much to come of this blooming addition to the Holmes legacy—a politician, a doctor, some kind of influential gentleman. His brother Mycroft had taken him under his wing, as an intern in his government office, when Sherlock had been sixteen. It hadn't worked from the start; Sherlock complained, bungled things on purpose, was even found with a small amount of opium once. His heart, he claimed, wasn't in it. No, it was to be found fluttering in criminal investigations.

Detective work.

No word need be said about the Holmes family's attitudes towards detectives. Low, grimy work, fit for sons of factory workers and immigrants. Catering and serving to a client, even putting one's life in danger! Unheard of by this genteel, social family.

But Sherlock had defied them and started his business as soon as he reached the age of eighteen. He had moved out of Mycroft's home and gotten this small house on Baker Street. Of course, his purse was bottomless; to accomplish this rebellious feat, he had borrowed money from the only two sympathizers he left in the family—Lord and Lady Holmes, his aunt and uncle. Alice's parents.

That had been little less than six months ago. The sum borrowed, to buy the house, groceries, clothes, start up an agency—had been three thousand pounds. A very large sum, and it needn't be mentioned that Sherlock wouldn't be able to repay this sum for quite a while. In this time he was at their whim—whatever strange favor they might ask of him, he would perform it out of politeness.

So Alice was to visit him for a "month". She had never seen London before, they argued, she would love the sights and sounds of the city. But why send her to stay in some luxuriously cold hotel when she could stay in the cozy abode of her own cousin? Darling Shelley!

Sherlock clearly appeared frazzled as he appeared in the doorway, framed by his own debt and scrimping life. Alice moved aside to let him down onto the sidewalk, where he tipped the carriage driver and started moving the heavy luggage into the house.

Alice went inside and looked about the house. It looked extremely poor and under-furnished. No carpet lay on the bare hall; to the right, what looked like a parlor was decorated with shabby furniture, a brown faded sofa with tears on its seat, two green flowered armchairs sitting next to a cracked hearth, dusted with old ash. A rather depressing picture of a squalid sea hung on the parlor wall. Alice, pitying its poverty, sat down upon the sofa, clearly uncomfortable. She waited patiently as Shelley brought in her various articles, his chest heaving with each effort.

"I thought you were only staying a month, my dear child," the young detective admonished, wiping the sweat on his forehead with his sleeve.

Alice wrinkled her nose. "What right have you to call me a child when you're only eighteen?"

Shelley smiled, his brown freckles showing through his light skin. To supplement his income until his business picked up, he had worked as a printer's assistant, twenty blocks away from where he lived on Baker St. Of course, ordering a hansom every day was quite unnecessary; he walked, and the sun dappled his skin with each stroll. "Well then," he started. "Shall I dazzle you with my unique powers of observation?"

Alice shook her head. "You're hopeless, Shelley. I do think you've gone mad."

"Then how is it that I know that your dear kitten bid you a fond farewell when you started out yesterday morning?"

Alice sighed. She wasn't in the mood for such nonsense. It was difficult enough that her parents had sent her on a 'holiday'. Now her mad cousin was trying to perform parlor tricks in front of her eyes. Clown.

"Alright then...I suppose I should explain our arrangements," Sherlock said, observing her disgust, cursing himself that he had actually annoyed a child. "I attend to my temporary position on Tuesdays and Thursdays at six o'clock in the morning to seven o'clock in the evening. All other days of the week I tend to my cases. Save Sunday, of course, where we shall attend church. During my absences I've asked my landlady, Mrs. Hudson, to look after you when you come home from school, and when I'm out doing my investigations."

"Landlady?" Alice again wrinkled her nose. "You haven't got a housekeeper?"

Sherlock's eyes grew smaller. "I'll have one as soon as I earn enough," he answered.

"And what's this school?"

"Madame Corrington's Academy for Young Ladies. A hansom will take you there each day at seven o'clock. You'll arrive home at four o'clock."

"Will I have many other girls in my class?"

"From what I've heard, perhaps about seven or eight."

Alice sat back and took her hands out of her muff. "At home I had a private tutor, and I was the only person in my class."

Sherlock was clearly getting irritated. "Alice, you must remember that you are living with me for God knows how long your parents wish me to keep you. Your education, your nourishment, and your shelter are earned through my work, and it's no small task, having to rise so early and work at two jobs—one to be my career, and the other to keep me from starving."

"I see," Alice answered plainly. "I shall go to bed early, dear cousin? I'm rather tired."

"Yes...yes, do that," Sherlock answered, glancing at the broken clock on the mantle, which read seven-thirty. "Shall I get your nightgown from your suitcase for you?"

"Please," Alice answered, ascending the stairs to see her new bedroom, which she could be assured with plastered in peeling pink wallpaper with a second hand mattress covering the bedframe.

(-)

She disliked living like this, living like a poor girl, with a broken down shell of a house as a shelter, a poverty-stricken teenager as her guardian. Her pretty, girlish room in Christchurch was replaced by a smelly old room over looking the alley ways of the backstreets. Her normally delectable meals were a mixture of Mrs. Hudson's no-nonsense London cooking and Sherlock's often-burnt concoctions. Mrs. Hudson was another story. Her Nurse back home had been a kind, gentle middle-aged woman who wore soft cotton gowns and sang to her before she drifted off to bed. Mrs. Hudson was a complete opposite. She wore her hair in a hard knot, wore stiff gowns with a pleated apron, and rarely had anything to say to little Alice, who would come unhappily home after school.

Ah, school. A private school, even an extremely selective school such as Madame Corrington's, was no match for Alice's tutor. Every day she rose to put on the plain white blouse, knee length blue plaid skirt, and boater hat. The hansom, with its cigar-smoking driver and beaten old horse, would carry her down a few streets to a distinguished-looking mansion bearing scars of ivy. Her classes were small, the other girls were friendly towards her, and the Madame welcomed her warmly to the class, but Alice quickly showed that she wasn't in the mood for what she called "common education". She achieved high marks in all her subjects, but didn't interact with the other girls, nor raise her hand in class.

She hardly ever saw Sherlock. His temporary job kept him away on Mondays and Wednesdays, and the few clients he received would take up much of his time. Indeed, it was a wonder he received any clients—the house was so ashamedly shabby that Alice thought few clients would want to venture inside.

In the evenings, the only indication that he was home sounded from his mournful violin, probably the most expensive thing he owned. Alice preferred to spend her time in her room, save for mealtimes. She was comfortable here, in her own world, sheltered from all and any.

It was her own little Wonderland, created amidst poverty and unhappiness. She loved it as well as she could.

(-)

"God," Sherlock muttered, turning over in his bed. He looked up to gaze at the small clock mounted on the wall, sputtering each hour. Three o'clock. Time to wake up.

He warily arose from bed, turning on the bedside lamp near his bed. The lamp was one of the new additions to the house, newly bought only a few weeks ago. The table on which it lay was another story. It was a plain three legged wooden table, and was adorned with a short red tablecloth that didn't quite reach the end of the table. The robe he put on was a present from his mother and father, one of their last presents.

He quietly opened the door of his chamber and proceeded into the hallway, where he slowly pried open Alice's door. The girl was sleeping peacefully, the doll she had brought from Christchurch in her arms. Strange child, Alice. Troubled, it seemed. This was indicated by the letter her parents had sent to Sherlock, full of all the wild stories she had told about her imaginary playground, Wonderland.

No matter how wild they seemed...too drastic. Too drastic to send her to a poorer cousin, to expect him to care for her without any help whatsoever from them. Well, of course they were ashamed of her at the moment. He could still remember the letter they sent, asking—no, demanding—that she be sent to him:

_Dearest Sherlock,  
Hello dear nephew! We trust that you are doing well in London and hope that your business is receiving many clients, as we have no doubts in your abilities._

_However, we have now to report to you some shocking news—your little cousin, Alice, has grown quite strange lately. It all began one day when she returned home from a day out on the pond with her sister. She began telling stories about a made-up world, with all sorts of curious animals. We humored her for a little while, but as the days wore on she began insisting that her stories were real and that they actually had happened. We only assumed that her imagination was overflowing, and that she would eventually grow out of it._

_However, the final straw came when out family was invited to tea at the Hammond residence. After the afternoon brunch, as we sat chatting with the Hammonds, Alice went off into the garden with their daughter, Eliza. Soon we heard a loud splashing noise, and flew out to see what had happened. Alice had pushed Eliza into the pond, claiming that Eliza was stupid for not believing her tales about her wonderland. Worst of all things, the girl couldn't swim. Her father jumped in to save her, then he and Mrs. Hammond gave Alice an awful scolding as we watched. After, they quickly showed us the door. It was mortifying!_

_As you know, word travels around our town quickly, and soon everyone knew. Alice has been under an awful amount of stress lately. We have managed to forgive her, after stern discipline and punishment. The family doctor recommends that she spend some time away from here, to forget about that unfortunate tantrum. Naturally, we thought first of you and your charming house in London! What better way to spend a relaxing holiday then with a cousin she holds so dear? Of course, it won't be an ordinary holiday; we expect you'll find her a tutor, or, if expenses do not allow, a small private academy. We shall be sending her up to you on the twenty- fourth of November, and she will be with you for an extended period of time, perhaps even until spring._

_Your aunt and uncle,  
Cadrillon and Jane Holmes_

How assuming of them...but no, he knew he couldn't refuse. He'd already borrowed a large sum of money from them, and had to give in.

Sighing, he closed the door to Alice's room. He had gone to a great amount of trouble to make the house livable—he had purchased it at a very cheap price—and had made sure she was sent to school. But money flowed tightly these days, and if he didn't work harder he wouldn't be able to afford it.

Sherlock continued down the stairs, to the darkened kitchen, where he began to fix himself some breakfast. No, it wasn't enough that he was gifted with extraordinary powers of observation, that he could distinguish textures, odors, styles of clothing, with magnified perception. He had to prove that he could hold his own against the larger private detective agencies. That even at his young age, he could accomplish much.

It remained to be seen.

The eggs were frying in the pan. A woman's work, but as a bachelor, Sherlock had learned to cook to keep himself alive. Mrs. Hudson only cooked meals for him when he asked her to, and he hated asking her. It was bad enough that she was looking after Alice without any sort of extra payment. She did it out of her heart, and she was clearly not pleased. He'd pay her as soon as he had enough money.

But when would the money come?

"Shelley?"

A sleepy voice startled him, and he quickly whirled around. Alice stood there in her tiny lace nightgown, her eyes half-closed as she stared at him. Her curly head was wrapped round with ribbons, and her bare feet looked painfully pale against the wooden floor of the hallway.

"Alice! What are you doing up so early?" Sherlock turned off the stove and went to her, kneeling down to see her face.

"But Shelley...it's the right time for you to get up, isn't it?" Alice swayed against him, and he took her by the shoulders.

"For me, my soul, but too early for you. You've got school tomorrow." He picked her up, her small legs swung over his arms, and carried her back up to her room.

"Whyis it thatyou get up so early?"

"I have to walk there, love. It's thirty blocks away."

"Oh, you really are a darling, aren't you? You don't really work as a printer's assistant. You just stand outside all day...and go inside every now and then, to make some money."

Something in Sherlock died. "What do you mean?" he demanded as he lay her down in bed.

"Shelley, I know. You could never earn enough money to keep this place if you didn't do dishonest work." Her eyes were closed now, and she was reaching for her blanket.

"Child, you're clearly dreaming," he replied uneasily, tucking the blanket about her. _How did she know!_

"Alright, whatever you say, Shelley," Alice replied, turning over. She fell asleep nearly five seconds later, as Sherlock patted her soft hair.

Unnerved, he rose from the bed. _What had it been?_ he asked himself. Was it the clothes he wore when he went to work? The fact that he had been bringing home larger amounts of money lately? If Alice's parents knew about it...

Forcing himself to remain calm, he quickly dressed for work and went out the front door, his breakfast remaining uneaten.

To possibly be continued...

Note: Hello and greetings to anyone who enjoyed this fic! This is my first real fanfic based on a book, and I kinda have a second chapter in mind...so, I've decided this if this chapter gets enough reviews, there will be a second. So review if you liked it, or if you have some constructive criticism for me! Byee!


	2. The Manners of the Weary

Note: All Sherlock Holmes elements belong to the estate of Arthur Conan Doyle. All Alice in Wonderland elements belong to the estate of Lewis Carroll. 

_"There is but one step from the grotesque to the horrible."—The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge_

The Adventure of the White Rabbit  
A Crossover between Sherlock Holmes and Alice in Wonderland  
Chapter 2: The Manner of the Weary  
by ArchFaith

"Alice! Alice!" Alice looked up from where she half-reclined, eating the watercress sandwich Mrs. Hudson had made for her. The tree above her, on the grassy patch of earth, shaded her from the sunlight, as well as the rest of the world.

It was a fine day in the city; for once the thick smog did not obscure the noonday sun, and the girls were allowed to eat outside. It had been raining as of late, and everyone welcomed the bright change in weather plans. The exterior of the school glistened with a fresh coat of white paint, and squirrels twittered among the branches of the leafy trees, gathering provisions for the winter. Relatively mild for the second week of December; even through the sky threatened to burst with snow any day now, the girls played outside with their coats unbuttoned; there would be plenty of time to be cold later on.

"Alice!" A girl came trotting up the lane, dressed in the exact same uniform and light winter coat as she. Her short brown hair framed her oval face and offset the freckles on her nose, above her huge liquid brown eyes. This little girl, Alice knew, was named Violet Hunter.

Alice sighed and put down her sandwich as Violet jogged up to her, smiling. "Alice, dear. Come play with us." She stood looking down at Alice with what appeared to be the utmost sincerity, her hands clasped behind her back.

It had been two weeks since Alice had arrived at school. During that time, she had taken no interest in any of the other girls' activities, invitations, or friendliness. Violet surely knew that. So why should she ask now?

Alice looked up questioningly at her. Violet smoothed her hair back and smiled again. "I just thought you might wish to. It's such a remarkable day." She raised one of her hands to indicate the surrounding scenery. The tone of her voice was unpressing and almost carefree.

Alice weighed the various situations she might find herself in if she consented to this girl's request. On one hand, she might find herself among a group of silly idiots, the only intelligent girl within the grounds; on the other, they might surprise her and turn out to quite clever after all. She had never really paid them any heed while they were in class; she only bent her head and completed her own assignments. But really...were they really the sort of little girls she would want to associate with? After all, back in Christchurch...

But ah, here it was, here it was. What if...what if she told them about Wonderland? And what's more...if they believed her?

"Well...I suppose I could, my dear, if you really wished me to," Alice answered, grasping Violet's outstretched hand. "But do you think the other girls would want me to play with them? After all, I have been rather cold to them since I arrived."

"Of course!" Violet grinned toothily. "We all want you to feel welcome here, Alice. Come!"

She led Alice towards a large oak tree that sat squarely in the middle of courtyard, its leaves fluttering under the pleasant breeze. Six or so girls sat under it, opening their steel lunch tins and sharing bites of apple and melon. Alice shyly alighted near Violet, squeezing her hand against the metal handle of her tin.

"Hello, Alice," a chorus of girls greeted, smiling unsurely. They had all noted this strange new girl's demeanor—the way she ignored their own greetings and gestures, the way she never volunteered any information, and the supposedly shadings dealings of her guardian cousin, related to them by their elder sisters and brothers. It had been Violet who suggested that perhaps she was overly shy, or maybe just depressed and confused. Yes, this was the logic, they all reasoned. For who did not want to have friends, to be accepted?

"Hello," Alice replied, surprised by their civility. She would have expected them to ignore her as they had usually learned to do. "It is...a beautiful day out here, isn't it?"

"Yes...it is," a voice answered. This one belonged to Rebecca Saunders, a stout, raven-haired child who loved music and poetry. Alice could almost hear the notes in her voice as she spoke. "Ha ha, I should like to be out riding horses, or picking flowers, instead of attending school!"

Alice felt the corners of her mouth twitch. "Oh, as should I. I should like to be back home in my own little room in Christchurch, playing with my darling kitten Dinah."

"You're from Christchurch?" the girls asked, stimulated. Aside from their distant relations, few of them had ever met with a little girl from the more rural areas of England. "Did you move here from there?"

"Oh no, I haven't moved here," Alice answered, beginning to feel quite at home. "I am just staying with my cousin, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You see, I was so advanced in my classes back home my tutor thought I deserved a holiday from my lessons!"

And so it went. Alice was quite a good liar; she told the truth about everything but the reasons she had been sent to Sherlock. She told the girls about her large mansion, her opulent wardrobe, the various privileges she was entitled to at home, and everything in between. Within the space of a few minutes, a new world had opened up to the child; a place of possibility, a feeling that she might even gain a few friends. All of a sudden she didn't care that she hated life with Shelley; she had remembered that it had been too long that she had been without company, and too long that she had not conversed with children her own age, or even any sort of worthwhile soul at all.

"Oh yes, it was quite lovely," she finished. "Our golden pond, the most darling place on earth! And you won't believe me at first, but I had the most unimaginable adventure there, when I lay down by the banks..."

The White Rabbit, the potions which made her shrink and grow, the Caterpillar...all were related in vivid detail, coming to life once again in her words and fond remembrances. They did exist; of that she was sure. And now her new friends would believe her, unlike that stiff Eliza back home.

"And then all of a sudden, I was taller than the treetops! My neck was so long I could bend it any which way I liked, in the sky. And what do you think of that?" For the first time in her narrative she paused to hear the audience's reactions.

All except Violet and Rebecca were looking on with astonished glee. "Oh, it sounds so wonderful, Alice!" one girl said, giggling with delight.

"Yes, do go on!" another shouted.

Violet was curled up, her knees tucked under her, quietly enjoying the tale. "Quite brilliant, my dear," she offered as a compliment.

"My, you are a good storyteller," Rebecca added. "But perhaps you should shorten the part when you fell down the hole...I think that maybe it's too long."

"Shorten it!" Alice snorted indignantly. "I shall do no such thing! Why should I change the story when that is exactly how it happened?"

"How do you mean...how it happened?" Rebecca questioned, looking at her doubtingly.

"I mean that I actually fell into the rabbit hole, and into Wonderland...this is no dream, Rebecca."

Rebecca laughed, the sound of it clear and almost revolting to Alice's ears. "Well! You really are quite out of your head!" she exclaimed. "How could something so silly actually happen in real life? It's nothing but a fairy tale!"

Alice could feel the blood rising in her veins as she looked hard at Rebecca, who was still chuckling. Another disbeliever! How many could there be in this world? "You musn't tease me so," she said, choosing her words slowly and in half-patience. "Please, I should like it if you took back that comment." There was a second chance for this girl, a second way to admit that she believed.

Rebecca was almost flabbergasted as she stared back at Alice. "Are you really offended? I was only joking...but you really don't expect me to believe that nonsense, do you? It makes for an entertaining story, but of course it's just a tale..."

The last straw. No more chances left.

"How dare you! How dare you think that Wonderland is only a tale! You awful thing!"

She did not remember how it was that she ended up on top of Rebecca in one fluid motion. She straddled the girl, pinning her to the floor, as she proceeded to pummel her with rather strong punches on her cheeks and mouth. Rebecca screamed as the other girls gasped and quickly rose, backing away to observe the one-sided fight, witnessing for the first time in their sheltered lives unsuppressed rage and partial insanity. Only Violet was brave enough to try to intervene; she hastily stepped forward and tried to pry Alice away, saying, "Please, please, you musn't!"

But Alice did not hear her. She heard only the screams of her opponent as she beat her, saw the black and blue bruises well up on her face. Unable to fight back, tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she struggled and screamed to be let free.

Horrible girl. She should have known better than to try to make friends with these low-class idiots. Especially this one, this one who couldn't feel the magic of the Cheshire Cat, the pull of the Mock Turtle's song, the excitement of the White Rabbit...

"Alice! Oh my heavens! Rebecca!" A voice sounded from down the lane, raspy with shock and horror. It was Madame Corrington, proceeding outside to bring the girls in for their afternoon lessons. At the sight of the trouble brewing under the oak tree she hastened forward into the bright sunlight, nearly tripping over her bustled gown as she arrived upon the scene.

"Madame! Madame!" the little girls shouted, some of them crying now themselves; it was from the shock of the violence that Alice now inflicted upon their classmate.

"Stop! Stop, I say!" The Madame screamed, taking Alice by the shoulders. "Stop! Stop!"

"Oh, you silly old bag! Let me alone...I have to teach her a lesson..." The girl let this slip out almost unconsciously as she continued her assault, thick with rage and insult. By this time Rebecca was bleeding profusely; blood flowed freely from the gashes Alice's nails had left on her skin, and from the tender bruises as well.

"Stop right this instant!" By this time two of the Madame's young assistants had come out to find the source of commotion. All three had their hands on Alice now; and though her strength was quite strong for that of a little girl, it was no match against three grown women. At last they were separated; the assistants restrained the enraged child while the Madame flew to Rebecca, who was lying still in the grass, faint from the strong battering. The other little girls gathered around her, their faces wet and contorted. There had been nothing they could have done to prevent this.

"Rebecca, Rebecca...it will be alright, Rebecca, don't fret," the Madame said soothingly, placing her arms gingerly around the small girl, who nodded weakly. The Madame gently swung the child's legs over her arms, and lifted her up off the ground. The front of her blouse was stained with blood, and her eyes were bruised heavily with large black lines.

"And you." The Madame's voice rung like cold steel. Her eyes grew into slits as she observed Alice, who by now had ceased to struggle. She stood quietly now, a defiant look in her eyes as the girls gathered around the Madame, eying her warily. "Take this animal to the cellar. I shall call her guardian at once."

(-)

It was Tuesday; and that meant Sherlock was at his 'temporary position'.

He smoothed his hair back from his eyes, sighing. Another task completed.

Leaning against the hard stone wall of the dingy building, he crossed his arms as he saw the money counted in front of him, into his client's hand.

"Thirty-five pounds, then," the man's gruff voice said, as the last of the coins was placed into his expensive leather glove. These he gathered and dropped into an old brown pouch, its seams almost coming loose as he shoved it roughly into Sherlock's hands. In a mockery of the kind of salute a gentleman might give to a lady, he raised his hat and quickly turned, his heels making strong click-clack noises as he advanced down the pavement.

Sherlock stood for a while looking after him. Rich old bastard. Thirty-five pounds—Sherlock's regular asking price was twenty-eight, already quite a high sum for one in his line of work. But this middle-aged nobleman was new to the trade; he wasn't quite sure of the standard prices. All the better for the young detective to take advantage...

He almost winced. Detective. How could he call himself that when—this—was what he did for a second job? How could it be that he could ever properly start an agency, a true consulting agency, if he continued as he did? True, the money greatly helped pay for the rent on the townhouse, the necessities around the household, and of course Alice's schooling—but when would he start receiving reputable, wealthier clients for the agency? Of course he had clients—within the last month he had successfully solved six cases—but these had all been trifles, effortlessly-solved cases that he had only collected a small fee for. It never amounted to any more than twelve pounds; and that wasn't nearly enough to keep himself going.

Ah, if it hadn't been for Alice...perhaps if she hadn't arrived he would have been able to concentrate more on his detective work, and less on tending to her needs.

He pocketed the money bag and stepped out from the behind the shadows of the squalid building where had been standing for most of the morning, available to all those who needed him. East London was bustling during the day—not just with workers or servicemen, but with clusters of lusty men and women, venturing out from the daily humdrum of their lives, in search of something new and pleasurable.

And so there he was.

At eighteen he knew what it was like to work on the street.

He had been working like this on and off ever since he had moved out of Mycroft's luxurious house, ever since he declared he would make something of himself without anyone's help. He had gone out onto the street because it was the only thing he could do; he knew no trade, nor wished to let it be known that he, Sherlock Holmes, was working in some sort of store or factory. He, the son of a nobleman, related distantly by marriage to Queen Victoria!

No; he preferred to work nameless, among the shadows, where he can could remain safely Anonymous. Even if it was degrading; even if his clientele were disgusting; even if the money given him was sometimes barely worth it—it was a job.

Sighing he again started his patrol, walking up the street towards the peasants' markets, his hands in the pocket of his wine-colored dress- coat. Perhaps he might be able to take one more patron before dinner...

Ah, and here that patron was. A hansom pulled up alongside him, the tired horse bickering and whinnying as the door unceremoniously swung open. Sherlock smiled, aware of the obvious falsity surrounding his expression. "Good morning my dear. What can I—"

"Mr. Holmes," came a calm, womanly voice from inside the hansom. Sherlock stepped forward in surprise. The darkness of the inside made it quite hard to see, and the sun beaming out from the noonday sky, shining over the top the carriage, did nothing except blind him.

"How did you come to..."

"Oh be silent Mr. Holmes! Make haste...!" A plump arm reached out for his and quickly pulled him into the carriage.

Sherlock knelt on its soiled floor now, in slight shock. He was looking up into the stern, unforgiving face of Mrs. Hudson, who perched very stiffly upon the torn old seat inside the small coach. Her shawl was wrapped tight around her, and her bespectacled eyes gazed down at him with contempt.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he exclaimed, quickly rising. The driver had closed the door of the hansom, and the horse began trotting up the lane.

He quickly sank down next to her as the driver inquired, "Where to, duchess?"

"256 Hartford Street, if you please," Mrs. Hudson answered neutrally, her face devoid of any type of emotion whatsoever.

"Right," he answered, turning away from them to observe East London's traffic patterns.

Sherlock was in a state of half-shock. How had she found him? What would she say about his so-called "printer's assistant" position? Would she turn him out? Both him and Alice?

"Mrs. Hudson...I can explain," he faltered, his eyes averted as she gazed as him sternly.

"Can you, Mr. Holmes?" she countered, her voice steely and thick. "Honestly...I do not remember what in heavens I must have been thinking when I allowed you to purchase the townhouse. Of course I thought you were a good young man, working his way through life...and then I find this."

Sherlock felt his cheeks pale as she spoke, his eyes rooted to the grimy floor of the hansom. To look her in the eyes was an act he could not do. "I am sorry," he whispered as she continued without pause:

"Madame Corrington's Academy called this noon, for you...I received it. They said it was urgent, and that you were needed as quickly as possible. Of course you know that I had in my possession the address you had given me as the printer's shop; and I dispatched a telegram, but the owner of the shop answered that a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes was not employed there. I was baffled, and decided to go to the shop myself to see that there had been a mistake; I caught a hansom down the lane and rode in. The address you had given me turned out to be the address of a tavern! And so I was just to find a constable when I saw you standing on a side road, near the market...receiving money from a stranger."

Her face, though neutral when she had begun, had now turned dangerously livid.

"How dare you," she continued, her voice low and threatening. "How dare you sell yourself on the street like a common whore. The son of a nobleman with a little girl living under your roof! And to think, I was not aware of this the whole time..."

She paused, sighing resignedly. Closing her eyes she leaned against the head cushion of the seat and turned her head to the right, taking in all the ugly scenery of the busy street the hansom had turned onto. Nothing more was said.

Shame began to well in Sherlock's soul now; his heart, beating normally a few minutes ago, now felt squeezed and pressured. He could not look at her; he could not speak to her. He had abused her generosity; of all the places he had been to, looking for a suitable house, only she had pitied him enough to let him move into her spare abode. Shabby as it was, it had been alright. At least it was reputable, and of him this same thing could not be said.

The hansom stopped. "256 Hartford Street, missus," the driver bawled as he slid open the small glass window.

"Well then," Mrs. Hudson whispered as she turned to look at Sherlock. "Go see to Alice."

Sherlock's eyes locked onto the Victorian manor house looming in front of them, with its imposing windows and verandas, the very picture of a genteel London girl's education. His face grew starkly pale.

"Mrs. Hudson...I cannot appear like this in front of Alice's school...the way in which I appear...it may cause my reputation to—"

"You shall have to," she answered dispassionately. "I shall not indulge this sort of behavior, Mr. Holmes. This is your business."

He sighed. He could not argue with her. Of course it had been his secret, his little money-earning scheme. Now it would become everyone's business. Rumors circulated among the older brothers and sisters of London would be reality, and all would know that he, a son of the noble Holmes family, brother to the affluent Lord Mycroft...was disreputable.

He closed his eyes for half a second in frustration. Oh to die at this moment! To be bourne away from this gloomy city, his unloving family, and this insane little cousin of his. Freedom to linger wherever he chose, eternally donning the invisible cloak of the dead!

He stepped down from the coach and proceeded to the gate. "Alice," he whispered, as if her name were a repulsive curse.

To be continued...

Note: Hello all! Now here's the second chapter...hope you all like it! There was a large gap between the writing of this chapter and the writing of the last. Hope the style was in the same vein as the original!

The third chapter will come soon...maybe in about...oh I don't know! Just know that it will come. And now, be a good reader and review my story! And remember...no flames, just constructive criticism.

And if anyone is a Holmes reader...yes, Violet Hunter is from "The Adventure of the Copper Beeches". I just thought it would be fun to portray her as a child with Alice in school.


	3. Protocol for the Sinful

Note: All Sherlock Holmes elements belong to the estate of Arthur Conan Doyle. All Alice in Wonderland elements belong to the estate of Lewis Carroll.

Note: Half-sick and tired...the perfect elements for writing a feverish story.

The Adventure of the White Rabbit  
Chapter 3: Protocol for the Sinful  
by ArchFaith

Alice lay face down on her bed, her head cradled in her arms. Her school uniform had been discarded and now lay on the hardwood floor, on top of the old rug Mrs. Hudson had brought up for her in the weeks past. She now again donned that familiar blue play dress and pinafore, and her hair, though rather ruffled and messy, still retained its wavy appearance.

She looked up as the knob on the door turned, her eyes reddish and swollen, her face pale against the fading light of the sun, which stretched in through the windows, red and forbidding.

Sherlock appeared, his face seemingly neutral. Of course, it had been that way ever since he had arrived at her former school that very afternoon; it had been that way as he listened to the Madame's story and saw Rebecca being escorted to the hospital with her concerned parents; it had stayed that way even as he took her hand and led her home, amidst the looks of the crowds that worked and played along the avenues leading to Baker Street.

She turned over and sat up, rubbing her eyes. He swiftly crossed the room, and in the next instant planted himself onto her bed. From closer inspection he now looked tired; the circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced, and his lips were almost white. Even his clothes, which usually fit well on his lanky body, seemed too large for him.

"Shelley," she began, gasping out words. "She didn't believe me, Shelley...you must understand—"

Her plea was interrupted by a sharp slap that hit her hard on her right cheek. Crying in pain, she immediately looked away as she brought her hand up to her cheek.

"I would give you more if I could; but as I do not advocate punishing children as such, I cannot," was his calm explanation. His voice was dangerously low and threatening; it seemed almost spectral, so subtly hostile it seemed as though he were a ghost.

The force of the slap had automatically caused her to start crying again; her eyes turned the same shade of red as her cheek as she turned away from him. "She didn't believe," she stated again.

"As I do not," he retorted. He sighed deeply as he brought his hand up to his face, stretching his fingers over his eyes and forehead. "I am ruined. Utterly and totally...and there is no chance of gaining back what I have lost."

Alice sat watching him for a few minutes. He was as still and silent as something inanimate; the only indication he was alive was from his labored, stressful breathing. After a while she drew up her legs and sat up.

"Then may I infer, my dear cousin...that you really were...a prostitute?"

Sherlock looked up at her, his face a mixture of distaste and civility. He cleared his throat and stretched both arms behind him on the bed, leaning back for support. "Hahaha," he laughed softly. "Yes...yes, you have guessed right. I am not totally without blame."

"But why, Shelley? Why...why would you do such a thing? If our family ever knew of this..."

"Oh they will know of it. Some time or other they will hear it through rumors and stories; and when I disappear they shall know it is true. And as to your question, my darling...I suppose...I suppose it started when I left Mycroft's care. I needed money to start up the agency and for various other activities. And I found that the life of a prostitute afforded me the greatest freedom—to be able to earn money and work anonymously with unnamed clientele. I was only going to keep it up for a few months until I earned enough to keep myself stable...and then I received word that you were to be sent to me. I needed to give you a good home and a good education. I knew we could not live in the small flat I was renting at the time; so I moved here, to Baker Street. And I managed to locate a suitable academy for you...or I thought it was suitable, at least." At this he drew his legs up onto the bed, and grasped his knees tightly to his chest.

"So, Alice...it is for you that I have exerted myself. I am sure that I would have been able to support myself if you had not arrived...but as they say, children are quite expensive to maintain."

Alice looked back at him with surprise. If not for her...if not for her...

"I...I am sorry, Shelley," she whispered, clasping her hands together as if in prayer. "I...I really..."

"Mmmm," he answered, closing his eyes. "And because of you I am doubly ruined; for now my reputation as an honest gentleman is dissolved; and I can never work as a detective again."

"I...I am sorry...but it's real...it is."

His eyes turned in their sockets until they were fixed upon her; in their depths she could sense loathing, pain, and a small amount of pity. He rose wordlessly and strode to the doorway. Without turning around he said, "As it is close to Christmas Mrs. Hudson has agreed to let us stay until that time. But when it is over...we shall leave."

With that he closed the door.

(-)

Things were quiet in the household for the next two weeks. Sherlock and Alice hardly spoke to one another, even though they were always at home. Having been expelled from the academy, Alice spent her days writing stories on scraps of paper and drawing in front of the parlor fire. Sherlock seemed to be drifting more and more into himself; needles lay strewn about in his room, and the noises of his violin were scratchy and muffled.

Mrs. Hudson did not appear to them any longer; she had let them stay at the townhouse out of the goodness of her heart,and did not wish to be involved with them. The only food they ate was canned meats and vegetables, and even after this became tired they did not complain.

How could they live now? Both of them. Alice was now completely submerged in her Wonderland world, amidst the garden of the Mad Hatter and the March Hare, raising her tea cup in a fond salute. She drew crude images on the walls of her room, trying to simulate the brilliant hues of the garden maze of the Queen of Hearts. She dreamt about it, thought about it, talked to herself about it. It was her life now. Her colorful, insane life.

Sherlock's store of cocaine and morphine was quickly being used; every day he had at least three shots of both or either drug. He was either lying motionless in bed or slumped in his armchair, playing his mournful violin with unnatural, perfected ease. Ashamed, he no longer went out to work; and no new clients were to be found among his respectable neighbors.

And so life continued for days and days. Always the same; the monotone stillness of the house when Alice awoke from her sweet reverie; the grey afternoons seen by Sherlock, when, in a daze, he would lean against the back of his chair and bemoan the day he ever left Mycroft's care; the cold, despicable nights, where both would huddle in the warmth of their beds, rubbing their legs together, seeing their breath materialize in the air.

Alice awoke one morning to cold rush of air; the frost on the windows sparkled in the wintry sun, casting patterns on her face as she sat up, her eyes immediately drawn toward the pane. She sat up and swiftly threw the heavy sheets back; her lacy nightgown bunched around her as she ran to the window and leaned her arms up against the sill.

Only a few were out and about at this early time. The newsboys proudly swung their sacks, bulging with papers, as they wrapped their malnourished heads about with old fabrics; drivers with mostly-beaten down horses trotted up and down the lane with their hansoms, smoking cigars; and a lady of the night—one or two or three—darted about, furtively glancing about, looking for customers.

It was an ordinary morning; and yet not so ordinary.

In an instant she had pried open the creaky door. Her bare feet stung with cold as she almost danced down the hallway in an attempt to keep from freezing; no fires had crackled in their house for long.

The door to Sherlock's room was ajar; she rushed in to witness him reaching for a drawer on his nightstand. He was still in bed, his eyes fuzzy from sleep.

His hand dropped as she entered, and his brows furrowed.

"What...what is it?" he asked, drawing himself into an almost sitting position.

She coyly tucked her hands behind her back, taking in the sight of him. "Ahh," she began simply, unsure of what exactly to say. She hadn't spoken to him for ages.

"Shelley," she finally faltered out, "to-day...to-day is Christmas Eve, isn't it?"

Sherlock pulled himself up with seeming difficulty and throw the blankets off his legs. "It is," he said as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing the floor to see how cold it had become. "And if it took you that long to figure out such a simple thing, you must not be very intelligent at all."

"Are we going to church today?" she continued, ignoring his last remark.

His eyes grew narrower and even more malevolent. "Really, my dear," he said mockingly, "do you really think that we—both of us—would be allowed in such a place after all the incidents we have stirred up?" He stood up shakily and proceeded to the other side of the room, to eye himself in a large cracked mirror that hung on the wall.

"I was just asking," she answered, clasping her hands together. "Well...I suppose it's too late for us to decorate then...isn't it?"

He sighed. "Get out of my room. The very sight of you makes sickens me."

She remained for a few seconds before exiting. Closing the door behind her, she tramped down the hallway to her own room. Upon arriving she flung herself on her bed in a very un-ladylike manner, lying flat on her stomach with her feet up, her arms cradling her pillow.

It was Christmas Eve.

Had she been at home in Christchurch, it was highly probable she would have been waking with joy, hoping in childlike anticipation for the shower of presents that was to be bestowed on her. And before that, the sacred mass and annual family banquet. Feelings of joy, contentedness, warmth...all things she valued in her heart, though it had been beating only seven years.

And now...Christmas here. With Shelley.

Well, it was _their _fault, wasn't it? If they had believed her stories, her visions, her exquisite retellings of Wonderland, they would still have her with them...she would be in Christchurch with her family. But no, they had chosen not to believe, not to take her seriously. And all because Eliza had gotten a little wet...

She closed her eyes and drifted away. To the sea, to dance with the lobsters...surely they knew nothing about Christmas...and if they did, they should dread it, for Christmas lobster was a greatly prized course...

On the shores of Wonderland, she was dancing the thirteenth figure with a rather clumsy lobster when heard the knob turn. She turned her face away from the door, wishing to be in solitude for just a little while longer.

"Alice," a dull voice called. "If you're hungry I have some breakfast for you...it's not too much, mind you..."

She closed her mind and pretended not to hear him.

She heard him tap his foot patiently at the door of her room for a few more seconds; then quit and proceed down the staircase, a certain unfamiliar heaviness in his footsteps. She heard the clatter of the dishes and the silverware and the pouring of some kind of liquid—tea, likely. At this she ceased to listen—the very act of lying on her bed had suddenly made her very sleepy and tired, and she inadvertently drifted again.

A knock sounded upon her door in what seemed like an eternity later. "Alice...it's nearly eleven o'clock, you knew...do get up, you're becoming lazier as the days wear on."

"Mmmm," was the only response he received. Rolling his eyes he knocked again.

"Alice."

No answer.

Annoyed, he opened the door to see her lying still in bed, half- asleep. But...but was there something different about her? He crossed the threshold and advanced to her bed, where she lay, dormant, in deep reverie.

"Are you..." he began inquisitively. "Really, Alice..."

"Leave me alone," she snapped sleepily. "I'm dancing the Quadrille...and I really don't wish to be interrupted...I shall eat later."

She turned fully onto her side, her arms brought protectively up to her chest.

He settled down on her bed, leaning back as he continued studying her. "You're a rather interesting girl, you know. Troublesome, but very interesting."

"And why is that?" she asked, dully intrigued.

She felt him shift onto her bed, felt his hand come to rest on her shoulder, his head hovering above hers. "Unless those are tears of joy, child...I believe you're crying."

Her hands flew up to her face. Crying? What had she been doing? She had been dreaming of dancing the Quadrille, not crying!

"Ohhh." She quickly sat up, brushing the previously unnoticed tears from her face. "I didn't mean to cry, I assure you. And I'm quite ashamed that you witnessed me do it as well." She looked up at him, the remnants of liquid still dripping down her face. "What are you doing here, anyway?" she asked in a more gentle tone. "I thought...I thought the sight of me sickened you."

"Mostly it does," he answered, with a contradictory smile forming on his face. "I supposed it is because I felt sorry for you."

"Sorry? For me? And why is that?"

"Well...when you asked me about church, I remembered that it was your custom—our family's custom—to attend church every Christmas Eve. And that your house was positively bedecked during Advent...So I surmised that was why you asked me as such—that you missed it all, the joy this wretched holiday usually brings. Do you?"

Alice brought her knees up her chest, her eyes downward. "I suppose, just a tiny bit. But," she continued, her face brightening, "I have Wonderland. And as long as I have that, nothing can make me too sad."

Sherlock sighed. "I see...I see." He stood up. "After all, why be sad when you can be content." He crossed over the thin rug adorning the floor and swung open the door. He paused as he turned sideways, towards the figure huddled on the bed. He parted his lips, as if to tell her one more thing; but thinking better of it, he turned and exited.

(-)

It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening when Alice finally emerged from her room. She had spent almost the entire day writing down all the poems she had heard or learned in Wonderland on some coarse brown papers she had found in her closet; clutching them close to her, she trotted down the stairs, the banner sliding between her small fingers as she hurried down.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair by the fire, and to her surprise she noted that he hadn't taken any drugs the entire day. He sat slumped, his hands folded on his lap as he stared blankly into the crackling fire, the only source of warmth in the house that day.

"Good evening, Shelley," Alice said carefully, coming to stand in front of him.

Sherlock barely acknowledged her; a mere sideways glance indicated that he was aware of her presence.

"If you don't mind, I should like to recite a poem for you," she continued. "It's from Wonderland. A mouse I met while I was swimming around in a pool recited it first...and as curious as it is, even though I didn't attend much to it, I do remember it...very distinctly."

Sherlock blinked.

Alice cleared her throat.

"Fury said to a mouse, That he met in a house  
Let us both go to law: I will prosecute YOU.  
Come, I'll take no denial; we must have a trial:  
For really this morning I've nothing—"

"Alice," Sherlock interrupted suddenly. He was now sitting up in his seat, his eyes focused on her intently.

She looked up from her papers. "That's rather rude; interrupting me, you know."

He rose from his seat. "Get dressed. Now." He turned and started towards the stairs, his feet striding forward with a mixture of caution and confidence.

"Dressed? But...why? And what for?" she called after him, the papers wrinkling in her hands.

"Your best clothes, my dear...we would have to consider ourselves heathens if we did not attend church tonight."

"We shall?" she hurried to the bottom of the stairs and looked up; he was already on the first landing. "What brought this about?"

He looked back at her. "Do not ask, my dear cousin. Just do as I tell you. It will be good for you to go." He turned and swiftly hurried up the stairs.

Puzzled, the child followed him, still silently reading from the mouse's poem.

(-)

They stood there, bundled up like cultured Eskimos awaiting the dead of winter in an urban Arctic, as cold and unforgiving as the original. Sherlock closed the door to the house; Alice watched as his white gloved hand clutched the knob, pulled in firmly outwards, and gave it a few good turns to make sure the house was safeguarded.

She looked down the street. The snow was falling so thickly that she could only see twenty feet in both directions; lamplight cut through the darkness as best it could, and its best was not really very good at all. No people wandered these streets tonight; no, it was a wasteland, a cold, unmoving parade of black iron fences and stained glass windowed doors. Beautiful and terrible, and so isolated she almost couldn't stand it.

Presently she became aware of hands pulling at her collar; he was tightening her bonnet around her head, squeezing her curls so much she was sure they would uncurl before the end of the night. She half-heartedly slapped his hand away, still staring fixedly down the street, trying to see if any of her Wonderland friends might suddenly invite her to tea. Surely the White Rabbit would be well-camouflaged...

"Come, Alice." His hand tugged at hers.

A mild realization hit her. "Shelley...oh, I must have forgotten them...my winter boots. I...I didn't bring them with me at all." She looked all around them. The snow was piling up higher and higher, and the wind whistled eerily among the branches of the few trees that littered their block. "I'm terribly sorry, but...I cannot walk in all this."

He sighed softly.

She barely had time to think before she was caught up in his embrace. "What are you...?" her voice faltered as she realized she had never really embraced him before. Even with her cold, pale cheek against his frosted scarf, it was still an embrace.

"I shall have to carry you," he said, his voice muffled. "Hold still."

She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck. "You musn't drop me, now..."

"I shan't. You shall be alright."

He was rather warm, now that she thought better of it; even through his heavy black overcoat she could feel his warmth. This wasn't so bad after all.

He swung her legs over his arms, his wrists brushing gently against the soft lacy lining of her flannel petticoat, which gathered gracefully at her knees. Her mittened hands were clasped tightly around his neck as he shifted her slightly in his arms, into a more comfortable position for both of them. Her cheek was pressed against what would've been his heart; and she swore, silently, that if she had listened closely, she could hear the beating of the stressed organ.

"Can you hear my heart beating?" he asked suddenly, as if he had seen into her child-like thoughts.

She smiled gently. "I haven't gotten a chance to listen," she answered. She pressed her curly head against his chest, listening for any tell-tale noises through all the layers of fabrics. "I think so...perhaps. Ah, wait...yes. Yes, I can hear it." One arm slowly let go of his neck, trailed down his breastbone, and came to rest over where she could hear the pulsing noise of his heart. Sighing deeply, she left it there.

"Well...let's walk then." He began to stride swiftly up the snowy lane, aware of the sudden protective feeling that had suddenly welled up in him as soon as he had realized Alice had been listening for his heartbeat. So he was alive to her, after all—not just some poor puppet required to be her guardian for a time. And to him, it seemed as though she had been searching for his soul, almost—looking to see whether her cousin still retained one after the grime of his work. And he kept it—and she found it.

He tightened his grip on her as he trudged onwards, his boots plowing their way through the thickening layers of white. Torrents of wind gusted up and tried to force them back, but he steadily moved onward, his eyes squinting to see into the foggy light that obscured the street signs and lamplights. Alice burrowed into his side, her eyes closing momentarily now and then, for the cold made the child quite sleepy; but in a few minutes she'd open them once more, to look questioningly up at her cousin and wonder at all the trouble she had set unto him.

It was about a twenty minutes' walk from Baker Street to St. Charles, the local church. But for the two of them it might have been twenty miles; the snow, the wind, the foggy light never ended.

And yet it did end.

Alice found herself being set down at the steps of the old church, her small feet lightly tapping against the patches of ice that remained on the cold stones. Sherlock brushed the snow off his coat in annoyance. "That was quite a walk," he commented. "You really should watch what you eat, child."

Alice looked up at him in mock anger. "Very well, Shelley, I shall!" she declared. Senses dulled by the chilly journey, she found herself forgetting that she and her cousin were not really supposed to be communicating. She tugged at his overcoat. "Are...shall we really go inside?"

Sherlock knelt down so that he was face to face with the small entity, looking straight into the sky blue orbs framed with beautifulgolden lashes. Well, she was nervous; that much he could tell. She knew who exactly would be sitting inside that church—her classmates, their parents, Rebecca, even. All those who knew about her outburst and her insane condition; not just those connected to the academy, but all of the community.

Doubly sinning, he thought glumly as he remembered his own mistakes. Well, then, both of them—two unworthy worshippers of a higher power—would proceed in, and suffer under the eyes of the decent. Neither of them would be spared the surprised looks, the gasps of nerve, the angry expressions. Both knew that they would be mentally roasted alive as soon as they set foot inside the holy place.

Sherlock blinked. It had to be done.

He had to cure her.

"Come Alice," he urged as he grasped her hand. He pulled open the heavy oak door and guided the child inside.

TBC

Note: Hey ya'll! It's been a while, hasn't it? Well, this chapter was originally going to be longer, but I really didn't wanna leave anyone hanging anymore.  
Now...I want to continue this story, but I need some encouragement. Everyone needs some now and then so give me lots!


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